You're Alive!
by KaiahAurora
Summary: It's been six months since Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart's hospital. John is a wreck, and planning to end it all. But what will he do when the detective returns? And will everything be alright once he does? Originally a weird angst-to-fluff one-shot. Slash if you want, but not necessary. Co-authored with Meghan. Spoilers for the end of season two! Post-Reichenbach
1. Return

**Summary:** It has been six months since Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart's hospital. John is a complete wreck, and planning to end it all. But what will he do when the detective returns? And will everything be alright once he does? Originally a weird angst-to-fluff one-shot. Slash if you want, but not necessary. Co-authored with Meghan

**Warnings:** Spoilers for the end of season two! Some fluff, lots of angst, no character death and possible slash later on

* * *

**Sherlock, I know you read these texts. I just want to let you know that I'm ending it tonight. So, you know, if you're alive, let me know soon. JW**

**This number is no longer in service**. John sighed. Of course the number was blocked. He bloody well knew that! Still, he hadn't stopped texting his friend, and he had this weird feeling that Sherlock could see the increasingly desperate messages.

**I don't care. Sherlock, if you're there, let me know now. JW **_'Great,'_ John sighed as he sat back against the sofa. _'Now I'm actually responding to the phone.'_ He looked down as his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He frowned. "Unknown Number" flashed on the screen. No one ever texted him anymore. Hesitating for just a moment, he opened the text.

**Cherish your life, John Watson. Don't end it. You doubt his death. Hold on to that. -Unknown Number**

**Mycroft, if that's you then sod off. I've given him six months already. I'm done holding on. JW**

**So quick to think it's Mycroft. -Unknown number**

John frowned again. None of his texts had ever given him replies recently, much less ones with actual emotions. Because of this, and only, this, John decided to keep texting. **He's been the most perceptive. Everyone else seems to accept that I'm fine. Alright, then, if you're not Mycroft then who are you? JW**

**I can't tell you who I am, but I know that you're not fine. I know you're grieving, John. -Unknown Number.**

The doctor sighed – whoever was writing him back was saying the same thing that everyone else had been for the first two weeks after Sherlock's… disappearance. After that, John had learned to hide his real feelings under a false mask of normalness. **Good for you. Keep talking as long as you want. You have about an hour to convince me. Then it won't matter anymore. JW**

**I know you've started to date Mary Morstan. She wants you to be happy, John. Don't let him keep you from being with her. I know you've quit your job at the clinic as well. You've taken a few small cases that popped up on your blog, and you're limping again. -Unknown number**

Mary. Dear, sweet Mary. She would have been the first real girlfriend that John had had since Sarah, but in truth, he wasn't interested in dating anymore. It was just another disguise to hide how broken he really was. He was surprised that the person knew about the clinic, though, and that he'd seen John enough to know that his limp was back.

**Of course Mary wants me to be happy, but you just don't get it. Coming back from the war Sherlock was the only thing that kept me from falling apart. I was a broken man when I met him, and he fixed me. No one can take his place, and no one can help. JW**

**John, I understand completely. You have to let others help you. -Unknown number**

John snorted in a display almost similar to humor. Understand? No one understood. No one had ever had half of themselves ripped away and told that it would "Just get better." **They've tried. Nothing works. I need Sherlock back. One way or another, I have less than half an hour until I see him again. JW**

**Go to the park at midnight, tonight. Don't ask questions, just do it. -Unknown number**

Alarm bells sounded in John's head, but he ignored them. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. **Why? JW**

**Just go. -Unknown number**

Might as well. **Fine. But I'm bringing my gun. If you're anyone other than Sherlock I'll use it. JW**

It was midnight. A man with curly dark hair leaned against a tree, holding a cigarette to his mouth. He stood in the shadows to conceal himself from the people who walked along the sidewalks. He scanned the park every few minutes for the limping doctor.

John stood at the edge of the park, shaking with worry. He had honestly thought that he would be dead by now. The doctor wrapped his fingers around the gun in his pocket, reassuring himself with the weapon. He took one last breath, and began to walk. His limp was more pronounced than ever before, he was painfully thin, and deep shadows formed under his eyes. A woman sitting on a bench stared at him, and the quickly stood and walked away after he'd passed. John stopped as he neared the middle of the park. He would wait until dawn, he decided. Then, it would be over.

The man pulled out his phone, not leaving the shadows of the tree. His face light up with the light from his phone. **By the tree. -Unknown number** The man was tall, and thin. His long overcoat hid the wounds he had on his arms, while his dark leather gloves covered the ones on his hands.

John's phone buzzed as the new text came in. He read the words twice - he could never be too sure of his mind, these days - and quickly saw the tree. He started towards it, wishing that he had brought his cane. His leg hurt terribly. As John reached the tree, he could tell that there was a figure in the shadows. His heart rose into his mouth and his stomach clenched, but he had learned not to get his hopes up.

The man shifted out of the shadows. "Hello John." His voice was deep and hoarse.

John stared, not daring to breathe. The voice was so familiar, but still he refused to believe it. He knew that he couldn't move. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock stepped into the light. "It's me, John." The detective said, studying his friend's face.

John stared, unblinking, at the man before him. After his brain had shouted at least five times _'It's Sherlock!'_ John finally came back to himself. For the first time in six months, some life returned to his eyes, and he flung himself at the detective. He wrapped his arms around the man's neck and refused to let go. He didn't say anything, because he had no words. Sherlock stumbled backwards slightly and hesitantly wrapped his arms around the doctor.

"Sherlock..." John choked out, not letting go of the detective. He buried his head in the other man's shoulder, just relishing the presence of him.

"I can't stay long, John. It's not safe..." Sherlock said quietly, wincing slightly as John grazed one of his wounds.

"No, Sherlock, don't say that!" John said hoarsely as tears threatened to slip out of his closed eyes. He kept his face pressed firmly into the thin shoulder, trying to hide from the world. "I can't get you back only to have you disappear again. I can't say goodbye again - I've done it every night in my nightmares. If you're leaving, then I'm coming with you."

Sherlock's voice was soft. "You can't, John. You have to stay here with Mary. Keep her safe." He paused. "I promise I'll be home permanently. Just not now."

"Sherlock," John said, finally pushing himself away from the detective. "Tell me why. I don't care that it's dangerous and I don't care if you have to leave. Tell me why. I was going to kill myself tonight, do you even realize that?" His voice broke and he closed his eyes, collecting himself. He started again in a more steady voice. "Tell me what happened, both before you died and after, and then I'll tell you if you can leave."

Sherlock sighed. The fact that John actually admitted to thinking of suicide was bad. Threatening to commit it was even worse. He had to tread carefully, but honestly, he was far from okay himself. "Moriarty. On the roof, he said he had sent his men out to kill those I care about. The only way to stop them was to jump. Molly and Mycroft helped me vanish." He said. "The past six months, I've been taking his men down, so that I _can_ return."

"And how long will it be until then?" John cast his gaze over the detective, noticing by the way he held himself that he was hurt.

"I-I don't know. I've only got one man left, but lucky for me... he's the most dangerous."

"Then I'm coming with you," John said, looking Sherlock straight in the eye. "There's no way I'm letting you go off on your own to be killed permanently."

"You can't, John. You have people here who need you to keep them safe." Sherlock said shifting his weight.

"_You_ need me, Sherlock. And I need you. Everyone else will be fine once you're back."

"It's too dangerous, John." Sherlock cringed, and held his side. He pulled his hand away, revealing blood. His wound had reopened.

"Shit," John said, finally tearing his eyes off of Sherlock's face. "Sit," he ordered, pointing at the ground. He ignored the look that Sherlock gave him, and cut off his retort. "We can argue about what we'll do after you stop bleeding to death. I'm pretty sure that it wouldn't help either one of us."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said quickly and stubbornly.

"No, you're not." John said, suddenly tired. "And, even if you are, I need to make sure of it myself. Now, sit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and did as he was told. "Shit," John repeated as he saw the knife wound in his friend's side. "The damage is superficial, but you're going to lose a lot of blood if we leave it alone. Come back to the flat and let me fix this, please."

"No, not to the flat. To dangerous." Sherlock said shaking his head. He was starting to get light-headed from the blood loss, but fought to keep the fact from John. No matter what, he didn't want to cause his friend more pain.

"Where then? Bart's?" John tried to keep his voice calm, but he was really worried about how pale Sherlock had become.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no hospitals. We can't go anywhere official."

John rolled his eyes. "Where, then? Mycroft's place? We have to take you somewhere, Sherlock. You're going to pass out soon." Even as he spoke, John saw the colour drain from his friend's face.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's too dangerous, John..."

"Oh, for the love of- Sherlock, you're probably going to bleed to death if we don't do something. I can see that you're already light-headed and cold. So, don't bother arguing with me, and just tell me where we should go." John was going into army doctor mode, and he didn't care. "If you can't choose a place in the next two minutes, then I'm taking us back to Baker Street, danger be damned."

Sherlock shrugged and blinked a few times. His vision was starting to get blurry. "Right," John finally decided. "Baker street it is. Stand up, Sherlock. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded and attempted to stand up. "Woah, woah!" John said, catching his friend as the detective's knees started to buckle. Setting his mouth in a grim line, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. He pulled on the arm with one hand and wrapped the other around his friend's waist, careful not to aggravate any more injuries. Soon enough, Sherlock was on his feet, and John had slipped completely into army mode. He would do whatever he had to, to make sure that Sherlock was alright, his own safety be damned.

Maybe it was lack of sleep, or his PTSD, or just the strain of the past six months, but John could have sworn that everyone around them was secretly hiding a gun, threatening his friend. Trying to appear as casual as possible, John tightened his grip on Sherlock, and started walking to the nearest sidewalk in the park.

Sherlock stumbled a few times, but John caught him. His side was completely covered in blood by the time they reached Baker Street. The doctor let go of Sherlock's arm as he opened the door, glad that he had forgotten to lock it on his way out. Mrs. Hudson was out that night, he remembered. Good. Sherlock was slowly becoming a dead weight, and John struggled to get him up the stairs. Sherlock looked around the flat. _It hasn't changed much,_ he thought to himself.

"Come on," John said, maneuvering them over to the couch. They were both trembling at this point, Sherlock from blood loss and John from shock and tension. The doctor slowly lowered his precious burden onto the sofa and, after making sure that the detective wouldn't disappear or something, went to get his medical bag. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, to focus on his breathing.

"Okay, take your coat off and lift up your shirt," John said as he came back with his medical supplies and a bowl of hot water. Sherlock groaned and slid his coat off of his shoulder. He laid back down on the couch and lifted his shirt.

John frowned as, for the first time, he saw the wound laid bare. He closed his eyes and collected himself, before he grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the warm water. He forced himself to treat Sherlock like he would any other patient. It was made easier by his army training, but harder because all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around the man before him and never let go. Dabbing carefully at the edges of the wound, John ignored the fact that his hands were shaking. Sherlock winced each time John touched the wound. It was like tiny knives running through his body each time the cloth touched him.

"I'm sorry," he said over and over again, so many times that the words probably lost all meaning. He hated causing Sherlock so much pain. Eventually, the wound was clean enough that he could see what needed to be done. "You need stitches, and a lot of them. I'm going to give you some local anesthesia. I'm also going to treat any other injuries you have, okay?" He knew he didn't need to ask his friend these things, but he was so scared that Sherlock would just slip away if he didn't keep talking.

Sherlock nodded. "Just hurry John." He said wincing from the pain again.

His friend's compliance scared John more than he cared to admit. Frowning, he made a split-second decision. He loaded a small needle half-way with pain-killer and positioned it in the right area above the wound. "Ready?" he asked. "This is going to sting like hell."

Sherlock covered his face with his arms. "Just do it..."

John stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger, wincing as if it hurt him instead of the detective. Then, making sure that Sherlock's eyes weren't following him, he dug two sedative pills out of his bag. He poured them into a glass of water and stirred until they dissolved. He held the glass out to Sherlock. "Here," he said as normally as possible. "You need to stay hydrated."

Sherlock nodded and took the glass of water, drinking it quickly. He hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for days.

"Good," John said, unable to keep the relief from his voice. "Now, are you going to tell me where else you're hurt, or do I have to forcibly search you?"

"Nowhere. I-I'm fine..." Sherlock mumbled. "Only wound..."

_Uh-huh,_ John thought, looking over the painfully thin waist and many bruises showing all over his body. He would have to work quickly before Sherlock realized that he'd been drugged. "I'm going to take off your shirt now, Sherlock. Okay?" he asked, a little more loudly than he needed to. The detective was going to be furious when he woke up.

Sherlock felt his eyelids getting heavier. "You...You drugged me..." He mumbled accusingly, letting the drugs take over.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, even though he knew that Sherlock could no longer hear him. "I'm going to take off your shirt and look for injuries, especially internal bleeding," he explained to the sleeping figure. No matter what state the detective was in, John was just glad to have someone to talk to. In a way, it was better that he could finally let his filter go, with no consequences. The doctor took off the black leather gloves and slowly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, careful not to wake him or aggravate any other injuries. As soon as the tattered piece of clothing was discarded, John sucked in his breath in a sharp gasp.

Sherlock had always been thin, but now he was emaciated. His hip bones jutted out like shelves and John could easily count his ribs. Besides that, large, blue-and-purple bruises extended over the detective's chest and abdomen. Countless marks lay upon his arms and hands, some of which were obviously new. For a moment, John just stared at the wreck that was his dearest friend. Then, he got to work. First, he began to tap his knuckles gently along Sherlock's stomach, confirming that there was not major internal bleeding. Then, he began to clean and stitch up every cut he could find. After over an hour, the doctor had checked his friend over from head to toe.

John rose and emptied out the fifth bowl of water he had used, and checked the time. 1:48 am. Setting his jaw and breathing deeply through his nose, John walked quickly over to Sherlock's room and pulled out a pair of pajamas - he had never gotten around to cleaning out the room, as he knew he'd completely fall apart if he did. John redressed Sherlock, more than a little awkwardly, and decided that the detective would survive sleeping on the couch. He ran back to Sherlock's room and fetched a blanket and a pillow, which he gently used to make his friend more comfortable. Finally, John cleaned up and put away his medical instruments, which had been thrown all across the floor.

When all tasks concerning doctoring were done, John started to worry about what Sherlock had said earlier - were they really in danger here? John realized that he still had his gun in his pocket. Smiling tiredly, he placed it on the table. He then went about making sure that all the blinds were closed and the doors locked. Then, the exhausted doctor flopped down on a chair across from Sherlock, and just stared at his best friend. Now that all the work had been done and he had a moment to relax, the shock of Sherlock's appearance suddenly, forcefully, slammed into John. A combination of the emotions that he had been feeling for the past six months began to boil up inside John, and he couldn't take it anymore. John Watson, the brave army doctor, Sherlock's one true friend, sat in that chair for the rest of the night, silently crying.

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Well, that was angsty. Next chapter up soon! R&R to speed up the writing, and I appreciate ConCrit!


	2. Revelations

When morning came, Sherlock stirred and slowly opened his eyes. His eyes scanned the flat, and he sat up quickly realizing he spent the night at Baker Street, something he didn't plan on doing. Pain shot up his side, and he quickly fell back onto the couch. He grabbed his wound and held his breath until the throbbing stopped.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice rough from crying, though his eyes were clear. "Are you okay?" It was ten in the morning, and as of yet no one had come to kill them, though the doctor had forced himself to stay up all night, just in case.

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "I'm fine." He said quietly. His voice was soft, possibly from having a good night's sleep for the first time in months.

John eyed him dubiously, worried about his friend, before he pushed himself off of the chair with a groan. He stretched, stiff from the long night in one position, and then walked to the kitchen. "I'm making breakfast," he announced. "And you're going to eat it."

Sherlock smiled to himself. _Same old John,_ he thought to himself. "And if I'm not in the mood to eat..?"

John was not in a laughing mood. He was tired and stressed, and his emotions were in utter turmoil. "Then I'll make you eat. I saw how thin you were when I was treating your wounds, Sherlock. You've got some explaining to do, for that and other things."

Sherlock sighed. "Alright. You have questions... Go ahead.. Ask them."

John stopped stock-still on his way to the fridge and took a calming breath. "Of course I bloody well have questions. You were dead for six months. But I'm not going to ask them now. After breakfast. I can't have you fainting on me or something." He continued to the fridge, realizing as he went that there really wasn't that much to eat in the flat. Mostly Mrs. Hudson had been bringing him food, and more than often it got chucked out the window. He opened the fridge, deciding against the two month old Tai food and even older pizza. After a moment he found some eggs, only a day before their sell-by date and completely untouched.

"I'm making eggs," he called over his shoulder. "You do you want them done?" He always needed to make sure, as Sherlock's preferences varied almost daily.

Sherlock glanced in the direction of the kitchen. "I don't care..." He mumbled, not really in the mood to eat. He reached up and brushed a curl out of his face.

John scowled and went about making some scrambled eggs, seeing as he finally found some decent milk behind a mouldy sandwich. "You know, everyone really missed you while you were gone," he said while he tried to get the stove going. "Lestrade started coming to me for help, sometimes, but then he stopped. Sometimes when we talked together he's start to say something to you, and then he'd quickly change the subject." John finally lit a burner and went in search of a pan he knew was somewhere close by.

"Donovan and Anderson really missed you, too, even if they never admit it. Sally avoided me like the plague." John located the pan and started making the eggs. "Mrs. Hudson was devastated. When are you going to tell her?"

Sherlock sighed. "Oh John, how I wish what you said were true. There is no way Donovan and Anderson missed me." He paused. "I-I'll tell Mrs. Hudson soon..." He shifted himself on the couch, grabbing his side as the pain worsened.

"It is true," John insisted, dumping the eggs on one of the only clean plates and washing off a fork. "Sure, they hate you, but they really missed you." He brought the plate over to the detective, frowning as he noticed Sherlock's pained expression. "Do you want me to fetch a pain-killer?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No... I'm fine." He sat up on the couch, grabbing his side again.

John's eyebrows disappeared somewhere above his hairline. "Right," he said, putting the plate of eggs down on the table next to Sherlock. He then ran to his room and got his medical bag from where he'd left it the night before. He sat down in his chair and pulled out a bottle of pills. After some thought, he took out two and put them on the plate. He also got a glass of water for Sherlock. "Need help?" he asked worriedly.

The detective shook his head again. "No, John. I'm fine." He picked the pills up and water up, and slowly took them. John pursed his lips but didn't say anything. When Sherlock was done with the glass he took it and put it in the sink. Then, sitting back in his chair, the doctor gestured to the eggs.

Sherlock stared at them. He wasn't in the mood to eat, so he set the plate aside. "I'm not hungry.." The detective mumbled.

"No," John said slowly and patiently, as if he was speaking to a child. "You need to eat, Sherlock. If you don't cooperate then I'll force-feed you."

"You can't force me to eat, John." Sherlock said raising and eyebrow.

"Oh, just you watch me," John said, now completely serious. "I'll do absolutely whatever I have to in order to keep you safe, more or less healthy, and here."

Sherlock groaned and grabbed the plate again. He stared at the eggs, not touching them. John stared at the detective, not moving from his chair and not saying anything. It was obvious that he would stay there until the eggs were in his friend's stomach, one way or another. As a doctor and, more importantly, a soldier, he knew that Sherlock would be hungry if he just took the first bite. John laced his fingers under his chin, and waited.

Sherlock looked up from his plate and at the doctor. "I'm not going to eat." He said.

"Sherlock," John said, not moving. "I have put up with your stubbornness, your childishness, and your immaturity for over two and a half years. I've cleaned you up when you were drugged and drugged you to clean you up. I've put up with more from you than probably anyone else has. Worst of all, I had to go six months thinking that I'd never be able to do it again. So, don't you dare think that I won't force you to eat. However, I would really appreciate it if you would save us both the trouble and just put a bleeding piece of egg in your mouth."

Sherlock rolled his eyes age stuck his fork in the eggs. "Fine.." He placed a small amount in his mouth.

John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Now, chew and swallow," he said in a low, very calm voice. The detective glared at his friend. After a while, he rolled his eyes again and did as he was told. One corner of John's mouth twitched up in some semblance of a smile. "You know that I'm going to wait until you're done the whole plate, so just get it over with. It's only two eggs."

Sherlock stabbed the eggs with his fork. "Not. Hungry."

John almost screamed in frustration. Instead, he gave Sherlock his most piercing glare, knowing that a little of the pent-up crazy was showing through his eyes. "You are going to eat the eggs, Sherlock." His voice was even softer, and more than a little menacing. He had just about had it with the detective's blatant disregard for his own health and, in this case, common sense.

Sherlock groaned and took another bite of his eggs, just to make John happy. As the gaze of the doctor kept boring into him, he took another, and another. He felt slightly sick after a while, but he forced himself to keep on eating, knowing his body needed the nourishment. John sat still and silent until the eggs were gone. Then he took the plate and dropped it into the sink. He came back and sat down, looking at Sherlock expectantly. The detective just grabbed his side and curled back on the couch.


	3. Sherlock the idiot

Okay, this next chapter has a lot of Sherlock being an insensitive git. Be warned, and try not to punch your computer screens.

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"So, you know," John said as casually as he could. "Whenever you want to tell me why you faked your death and stayed away for six months without saying anything to me, just let me know."

Sherlock sighed. "I've already told you. Moriarty sent men to kill you and Mrs. Hudson, and the only way to stop them was to kill myself. Or at least vanish..."

"Yeah, I know you told me already," John said. "But why couldn't you tell me? You said that Molly and Mycroft helped you. Why couldn't I have come with you? I would be perfectly willing to die to help you track down Moriarty's men." As the words left his mouth, John almost smiled at his own unconscious play on words. He would have faked his death, definitely, but he also would have died for real if it meant helping Sherlock. It made him sad that the detective simply seem to understand that.

"Molly just wrote the falsified death certificate." Sherlock mumbled. "You have a life worth living, John. I just wanted you to be safe. Moriarty knew exactly how to get to me, and I was ashamed of that. He had figured me out. But you never gave up on me. Even after my 'funeral.' That's what kept me going, John. Seeing how much you believed in me, how much you trusted me. I wanted to return right away. I was at the cemetery. 'One last miracle Sherlock, please don't be dead.' I couldn't tell you because if the word that I was alive reached the snipers, they would have killed you without a second thought."

"And you couldn't have taken me with you?" John asked sadly. "Sherlock, the life I had that was worth living was centered around you. Before I met you, I was a sad imitation of a human being. You gave me a reason to live, to make something of my life. And, arguably, I would have been able to 'keep you going' just as well if I was with you. The world never needed to know."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "John, if both of us had "died" don't you think it would have been a lithe but suspicious? It was safer for you to stay here at Baker Street. I couldn't risk putting you in further danger."

"But you did!" John screamed, finally loosing his calm facade. He looked away from his friend's searching eyes and spoke instead to the floor, calming his voice again. "You put me in the kind of danger I couldn't escape - the kind that came from me. I understand that you didn't think your death would impact me the way it did, but I still can't simply forgive you. I know that you did it to protect me and I know that it was the right thing, but it's going to take some time for me to convince myself of that." John swallowed the lump in his throat. "That's why I need you to stay with me, because no matter how dangerous it is wherever we are, it still won't be as bad as me on my own."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John, I-I didn't know it would have hurt you like this." He looked down to avoid eye contact. "It's too dangerous."

"Did you hear what I said?" John asked, slightly desperately. "I can't lose you again! Nothing else is more dangerous for me."

Sherlock looked down and thought for a moment. "I... guess... I could stay..."

John stared at him for a moment, making sure that he really hadn't imagined the words. "Okay," he said, and then realized that he didn't sound nearly enthusiastic enough. "I mean, yes! You have to stay." The doctor rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I just haven't really done emotions in the last six months. I'm a little rusty on things like happy." He straightened up and looked right at Sherlock. "So, now what are we going to do? What's the plan?"

The detective looked down. "It's still dangerous, so we'll have to take extra precautions. Now, I think I'll tell Mrs. Hudson." He was quiet, he knew he probably shouldn't stay, but he didn't want to hurt John again.

"Okay," John frowned. "Are you sure you're feeling up to it? I don't want you to push yourself."

Sherlock nodded, and attempted to stand up, grabbing his side as he did so. John watched the attempt for less than two seconds before he moved to his friend's side, looping his arm through the detective's and helping him stand.

"John, I'm fine. I can stand on my own." Sherlock said softly. John stared at him, unconvinced, but moved away. He couldn't help but mother, not after everything that had happened. The detective closed his eyes for a moment before taking a few steps forward. "Is Mrs. Hudson home?"

"She went to her sister's house, but she said she was coming back today. She should be home soon." John watched Sherlock like a hawk, worried that his friend might drop dead at any point.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "I-I'm scared of her reaction, John…" He mumbled.

"Don't be," John said firmly. "She'll just be happy you're back. I'm sure that there'll be lots of tears and scolding about your weight, maybe a lecture on responsibility, but she won't blame you." The doctor smiled. "Just wait until you're healthy, though, because I've been waiting to punch you for six months now. It's not going to be pretty."

Sherlock smirked. "And I'll let you punch me. I deserve it..." He took a few more steps forward, clutching his side.

"Boody well you do," John muttered, grabbing Sherlock's arm in support, ignoring the detective's glare. At that moment, the door to the flat opened and Mrs. Hudson walked in. Sherlock straightened his body, trying to look 'normal.'

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked when she saw him, her hands hovering over her mouth. "Goodness, look at you! We all thought you were dead, young man! Where were you?" She bustled forwards and wrapped her arms tightly around him, tears forming in her eyes.

Sherlock winced as she hugged him. "It's a long story, Mrs. Hudson.." He mumbled, trying to hold his breath to keep his side from hurting.

John stepped in to help his friend. "Sherlock's been off saving the world and all that, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid that he's had a bit of a hard time with it."

"Oh, you poor dear," the old lady said in utter sympathy, finally stepping away and eyeing the detective. "You look utterly spent. I'm going to make you both some tea," she announced and made her way slowly to the kitchen.

"She took that better than I thought she would." Sherlock said quietly.

"Just wait," John replied. He recognized the expression Mrs. Hudson bore as she started to make the tea. He would enjoy what came next, more than a little.

Sherlock turned to look at Mrs. Hudson. "What... are you taking about John?" he asked worriedly.

John stood, tight-lipped and smirking, until Mrs. Hudson came back with three cups and a teapot on a platter. "Why don't we all sit down for a nice cuppa?" she asked, a little too brightly. When the boys obeyed, and John had cleared some of the mess off of the table, she started to pour the tea. "Well then, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "I hope you know just how badly you behaved. You had all of us in a state. Poor John was distraught. I should think you'd have thought it through more carefully." She paused. "Then again, the fact that you're alive makes up for all that."

Sherlock looked down at the floor. "I apologize Mrs. Hudson."

"Now," she said, eying both John and Sherlock carefully. "What are you boys going to do now?"

"We're going to catch the last of Moriarty's men," John cut in before Sherlock could respond. "We're going to keep Sherlock's return private, so we're going to need you to pretend that he's still dead. We'll also have to create me an alibi. Will Mycroft be able to help?" John asked the detective.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "He helped me." He said quietly. "John, I'd still wish you'd reconsider. I don't want you in any more danger."

"Never going to happen," John said firmly.

Mrs. Hudson stood up slowly, feeling the tense atmosphere. "I think I should leave you boys alone to discuss. If you need anything, just give us a shout." She squeezed Sherlock's shoulder as she passed him. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock mumbled, glaring at John. "It's nice to be back..."

After the old woman left the room, John crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at the floor, and gripped his side, but not speaking a word. "Can we please just agree," John said slowly. "That from now on, as a general rule, we will go into danger together? It used to be a sort-of unspoken rule, before you went and died."

Sherlock looked up at him. "John, if you die. The past few months will have been for nothing." He said quietly. "I've been risking my life to keep you and Mrs. Hudson safe."

"Well," John shot back. "By that logic the past few months would have been for nothing if you had come back an hour later. Arguably, now that you're here and Moriarty's man knows it, I'll be a lot safer if I come with you, so you can protect me in person. And we can send Mrs. Hudson away again if you think it'll help."

"Oh John." Sherlock shook his head. "You don't understand. The last of Moriarty's men is Sebastian Moran."

John raised his eyebrows. "I suppose that's meant to frighten me, but all it does is make me more sure that I'm going to stay with you."

"He's the most dangerous man in London, since Moriarty's death." Sherlock sighed.

"I know," the doctor said. "And I don't care. Now, shut up and sit down so I can look over your injuries."

The detective sighed and decided it was not worth arguing with him and did as he was told. John winced in sympathy as he looked over the abrasions on his friend's body. Though they looked very painful, John didn't think they were infected. Still, he insisted on re-stitching one or two of the smaller wounds and dabbing all of them with antiseptic. Then, frightened once again by how thin Sherlock was, John declared he was going to make some soup.

"No. I'm not going to eat. I really don't want to go through this again." Sherlock said softly. "I'm not going to eat."

"Yes, you are going to eat." John came from the kitchen to look Sherlock right in the eye. "You're thinner than ever and I'm afraid for you. Please, eat, for me."

"John, I'm not going to eat." Sherlock said shifting in his chair.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" John said almost pleasingly. "You can't just give up now. You're way too thin and you'll need your strength for what's coming. I can't just watch you waste away!" John noticed that he was shaking, and moisture was burning at the backs of his eyes. He himself hadn't slept in over 36 hours, hadn't eaten in longer, and had gone through more emotional stress than his body could handle. What's more, he had been living more or less like that for the last six months. The doctor closed his eyes and turned his head away, getting a grip on himself. "Please," he choked out, not daring to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked down at the ground. "Fine... I'll eat, John..."

"Good," John said as evenly as he could. He went back to the kitchen and started searching through the cupboards and various hiding places for a can of soup. He ignored the fact that he was still shaking badly. After about ten minutes of searching, he finally gave up. "I'm going to go ask Mrs. Hudson," he called out to Sherlock. "And if she doesn't have anything then I'll go to the shops."

"John, really. It's too much trouble." Sherlock said quietly. "Don't bother Mrs. Hudson..." He had stood up, and walked to the couch. He laid down, trying to avoid hurting his side again.

"It's not too much trouble for me to go buy soup. It's getting you to take care of yourself that's the problem," John walked to the door and got his coat. "I'm going to the shops," he said over his shoulder.

Sherlock groaned and held his side, not responding to the doctor. John shot the detective a worried glance. He felt uncomfortable with leaving Sherlock alone in the flat, but they needed new groceries in the worst way possible. What's more, he wanted to stock up on medical supplies, just in case. John headed out the door, yelling back over his shoulder for Sherlock to call him if he needed anything. Sherlock rolled over on his side and closed his eyes, hoping he'd fall asleep soon. John walked through the store, more than a little self-conscious. He hadn't actually been outside all that much in the past six months, meaning not at all. Besides the two small cases which popped up on the website and the occasional stroll down Baker Street, John hadn't left the flat. In the shops, he had to work hard to remember where everything was. What's more, all of the other shoppers looked like assassins to his nervous eyes. By the time he came back to the flat nearly two hours later, he was close to a nervous wreck. He couldn't believe that something as simple as getting groceries had become to foreign. Sherlock was asleep on the couch, but woke up quickly when he heard footsteps on the stairs. His body was stiff and it hurt to move.

"You okay?" John asked as soon as he saw Sherlock's expression. The doctor frowned and dropped his shopping bags on the ground, moving quickly over to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. "You startled me." He took a deep breath, wincing from the pain in his side as he did so.

"Sorry," John mumbled apologetically. He quickly found his medical bag and pulled out some pain-killers. He held two out to Sherlock along with a glass of water.

Sherlock sat up, took them from him and swallowed them quickly. "Thank you…" He mumbled.

"Sherlock, tell me this," John said, sitting down in his chair across from his friend. "How the hell did you expect to go off on your own again after coming back last night? I'm still not sure I shouldn't take you to the hospital."

"Take me to the hospital, and everyone's life will be in danger… I only came back to keep you alive. I couldn't watch you die." Sherlock said quietly.

"That, plus the fact that you were bleeding out on the ground," John scoffed, pushing himself up from the chair. "What kind of soup do you want?"

Sherlock sighed. "I don't care..."

"Thanks for your helpfulness," John sighed, grabbing his bags and making his way to the kitchen. Sherlock watched him as he walked to the kitchen, before closing his eyes again. John chose a can at random and dumped it into a clean bowl. He shoved it into the microwave and started putting the groceries away. When the soup was ready, he numbly brought it over to Sherlock on a tray. The detective sat up slowly and stared at the soup, not really wanting to eat. John placed the tray on the table and sat down heavily. He leaned his head on his hand and looked at Sherlock tiredly.

"You need sleep." Sherlock said looking at him worriedly, then back at the soup. "Go get some rest."

"No," John said stubbornly, trying to shake himself awake. "You're recovering and need sleep of your own, and someone needs to stay awake in case Moran knows we're here. Besides, I'm not that tired," he lied. In truth, he didn't want to sleep because he knew what would come - every night for the past six months he had been plagued by horrible nightmares, always about Sherlock one way or another, which left him sweating and gasping for air. He highly doubted that his friend's return would change that.

"John, I know when you're lying to me. Get some sleep." Sherlock said inching the soup further away from himself.

"I don't care if I'm lying," John said stubbornly. "You are going to eat that soup, Sherlock, and then you're going to rest. We're going to need you in days to come."

Sherlock ate some of his soup and looked at John. "I slept while you were out, it's your turn."

"I'll take my turn when you've healed," the doctor said, closing his eyes despite his mind's protest. He shifted slightly, trying to stay awake. "I don't want you to disappear on me again," he mumbled as sleep started to claim him. "I can't lose you again."

"I'm not going anywhere, John. I promise." Sherlock said softly.

"You said that before," John murmured. "And then you left me." The doctor was gone, his head resting against his hand in a precarious position.

"I'm not going anywhere, John…" Sherlock repeated as the doctor drifted off to sleep. The detective smiled sadly and reluctantly ate a bit more of his soup before laying back down on the couch.


	4. Intruder

Just stick with me for one more chapter and you'll be rewarded by some lovely violence at the end. Don't forget to review!

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John was having a nightmare, as he had expected. He even had some notion that he was dreaming as he ran around through the deserts of Afghanistan and shot at people, all of whom had the face of Moriarty. Then, someone was calling his name. John whirled around to see Sherlock, standing just a few paces away from him on the rooftop at Bart's. "This is your fault," the detective said desperately and accusingly as he started to fall.

"No!" John screamed, but it was too late. Sherlock was gone once more, John's desperate hands just missing his friend's. The doctor stood, grief hitting him hard. Looking down off the building, he could see nothing but swirling mist and empty blackness. As the rooftop started to crumble under his own feet, John closed his eyes. "It's okay," he thought sadly. "It's okay to die."

Sherlock was standing in front of John, his hands on his shoulders. "John, wake up. John." He shook his friend gently.

John awoke sharply, his head snapping up and eyes wide. When his fearful gaze settled on Sherlock, it took a moment for him to register that the detective was actually there. He wanted to hug Sherlock, to bury himself in the other man's arms and reassure himself that he was really there. Instead, he blushed slightly and looked away. "What time is it?" he mumbled. Then, realizing that the detective was on his feet, "What are you doing out of bed... or off the couch?"

"It's three in the morning. And I'm off the couch because you were screaming in your sleep." Sherlock said quietly. He didn't remove his hands from John's shoulders. He looked him in the eyes. "I'm here John, I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"Oh," John looked down in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to fall asleep. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You needed sleep." Sherlock said, staring intently at John's face. When the doctor still refused to look at him, he sat back down on the couch, holding his side.

"No, I didn't need sleep. You needed sleep! I'm so sorry." He pushed himself up from his chair and found his medical bag. "Have you slept at all?" he asked, guilt and shame running through him along with the fear from his nightmare.

"I slept while you were at the shop." Sherlock mumbled. He didn't like John worrying about him, it made him feel like a child. He also didn't think that he was in the worst position of the two of them. The doctor had obviously been having a very hard time.

"That doesn't count at all," John sighed. "I'm going to look over your injuries again and then you're going to bed. Yours is covered in chemistry equipment, so you can take mine." He really didn't want to be in the same room as Sherlock at the moment. Despite over ten hours of sleep he was still exhausted, and his emotions were running rampant once more. He needed to let them out, but didn't want to worry the detective by letting him see.

"I slept for nearly two hours." He paused. "I slept for eight when you drugged me. I don't need sleep, John. You obviously need it more than I." Sherlock said slightly annoyed.

"I just slept. It's your turn," John said back quietly. He walked over to Sherlock. "Can you take off your shirt?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and did as he was told, wincing as he moved his arm. John checked over all of the injuries, wincing once again in sympathy. When he was done, he packed up his things. "You're going to sleep now, Sherlock."

"John, honestly. I'm not going to sleep." Sherlock said looking at him. "I don't need to sleep. I've already slept."

John sighed, running his hand over his face. "So what do you want to do?"

"I'm going to come up with a plan to keep everyone safe from Moran." Sherlock said, attempting to sit up. His side stung.

John casually pushed him back down on the sofa. "Whatever brain-work you need to do, you can do it while lying down."

Sherlock sighed. "John. I'm not a child."

"Maybe," John almost smiled. "But you haven't been taking care of yourself at all, so I'm going to take over."

"I've been too busy taking out Moriarty's men to take care of myself." Sherlock mumbled.

"Exactly," John said, sitting down in his chair. "I'm not trying to 'mother' you, Sherlock, but I am going to make sure you don't keel over because you haven't eaten or slept, or you're bleeding all over the floor."

Sherlock covered his face with his arm. "I appreciate what you're doing, but I can take care if myself." He said into his arm.

"The evidence indicated otherwise," John mumbled, not even registering just how much he sounded like the detective.

Sherlock smiled, but his smile was hidden by his arm. "One stab wound. One." Sherlock muttered.

"It's still a stab wound," John sulked, feeling a little life returning to him. The doctor decided to let the problem slide, for the moment, and adopt his old role as sounding board. He propped up his head on his hands and put his elbows on his knees, looking at Sherlock with faux wide and enthusiastic eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Consulting Detective, what do we know about Moran?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran." Sherlock said. "Moriarty's right hand man." He paused. "He's been very careful to cover his tracks. The first month is when he was the most careful, as in he practically vanished, but the last month he's gotten careless, walking the streets during the day, meeting with other criminals – I'm sure he knows I'm here by now."

"And where do you think he is?" John asked worriedly.

"The building across the street." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

"Oh," John said, spinning around to look at the window. "What do we do?"

"What else can we do but to outsmart him?" Sherlock smiled.

"Uh, shoot him?" the doctor suggested.

"Patience, John." Sherlock looked over at him. "I have a plan, and a brilliant one at that."

"Naturally," John smiled. "And what is this plan?" Suddenly, his gaze hardened. "You're going to tell me everything this time."

"We're going to play a simple trick on him." He paused. "We'll set up a 'dummy' here in the flat that looks like me. After all they do want me dead. He'll be in the building across the street. When he takes the shot, I'll be waiting for him. You'll be en-route with Lestrade. And we have ourselves a Sebastian Moran."

"Absolutely no way," John said. "If you're going into danger, then I'm going with you. I wish you could just wrap your big head around that concept!"

"John, it will work for the better. Just go along with it. It's the only thing that will work."

"Why don't you tell Lestrade? I'll deal with Moran. You're in no fit shape to be doing anything physical."

"Because that would be putting you in danger." Sherlock said. "John, I'm fine. This will work."

"I don't care, you're not fine, and it's not going to work."

"John, it has to be me." Sherlock said. "It has to be me."

"Why?"

"John, oh John..." He mumbled. "It's always been a game between Moriarty and myself. I have to be the one to take Moriarty's last man."

John snorted incredulously. "That makes absolutely no sense! I fought Moriarty, too. He tried to blow me up, remember? I realize that you had the whole dying-together-bond, but that doesn't give you the right to make decisions like that. And Moran was Moriarty's right hand man, and I am yours, so it would be all poetical and metaphorical or whatever, if I was the one to kill him." John realized that he was getting off course. "Listen, Sherlock, you can't change my mind about this. There's no way I'm leaving you alone. If you don't listen to me, I'll just walk over to the next building now and try to kill him myself."

Sherlock closed his eyes, not entirely sure how to respond to that. "My dear John." He spoke softly. "My blogger, my biographer, my friend. You'd do so much for me, and have done already, but I can't let you put life in danger anymore for me. It is my battle, it is my game, and I myself will end it."

"Fuck that shit!" John had finally lost it. "Sherlock, just shut up and listen to what I've been saying for the past twenty four hours! You are not going to be doing anything by yourself unless I'm already dead."

Sherlock's eyes shot open. "Don't you see it John?" He asked. "I want to do this alone. Allow me to do this on my own?"

"Why don't you see that I can't let you? I was on my own for six months and it almost killed me. I won't let you do anything that might take you away from me."

"Shut up, John." Sherlock said suddenly. "Listen." There were footsteps, but where were they coming from? "Do you hear them?" He asked quietly.

John swore quietly and lunged to the kitchen table, where he had left it the day before. He aimed it at the door as the footsteps grew ever louder. Suddenly, they stopped.

Sherlock slowly attempted to sit up. He waited patiently for a moment before speaking. "Mrs. Hudson, maybe?" he whispered.

John moved to stand protectively over the couch. "You know even better than I do it's not." A dull, mechanic clicking sound reached his ears, and he reacted instantly. "Down!" he screamed, wrapping an arm around the detective's shoulders and dragging him onto the floor just as the door flew open and a shot was fired.


	5. Not him

Sorry It took so long to update!

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Sherlock slowly attempted to sit up. He waited patiently for a moment before speaking. "Mrs. Hudson, maybe?" he whispered.

John moved to stand protectively over the couch. "You know even better than I do it's not." A dull, mechanic clicking sound reached his ears, and he reacted instantly. "Down!" he screamed, wrapping an arm around the detective's shoulders and dragging him onto the floor just as the door flew open and a shot was fired.

John kicked the sofa hard, creating a small shred of cover. His arms were around Sherlock, desperately searching the man for any signs of a bullet wound. A second shot rang out, blowing a piece of stuffing from the sofa just above John's head. He sent off a wild shot in the direction of the door, hoping that it would intimidate Moran enough to make him consider retreat. All was silent for a few minutes as the dust settled. "That's not like him." Sherlock said quietly. "To miss two shots." Sherlock felt a stinging in his side, cause by his previous wound.

"Are you okay? Were you hurt?" John asked frantically as he saw the detective holding his side. Then, he actually registered what Sherlock had said. "What does that mean?"

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said quickly. He paused and thought for a minute. "It's not Moran."

"You think he has an accomplice?" John asked. Before Sherlock could answer, he peeked his head around the side of the sofa. A shot almost took his nose off. He fired once more in the hopes of hitting something.

"Of course he has an accomplice. He's a master marksman. There is no possible way he could have missed the shot." Sherlock said simply. "How did I not notice that sooner... He has to have an accomplice. Moran would have used a military issued sniper from the other building."

"So what do we do?" John asked. "We're just a bit trapped right now." Another bulled came from the doorway, grazing John's right arm. The doctor swore and clutched the injury. "What do we do?"

Sherlock sighed. "We either wait until he's out of ammunition, or we find another way out." He studied the room, looking for another way out. "At the moment, the only way out is the window, and that's not going to work. Moran is probably stationed across the street."

"So what _will _work?" John asked, wincing in pain.

"Most likely a Colt 1911 semi-automatic .45 ACP pistol. Standard magazine holds seven rounds. Most likely carrying two magazines." Sherlock stated. "He's fired off four." Sherlock went silent as he scanned the room again. "Do you have your phone?"

"In my room," John said. "Should I try to get it?"

"No. No, too dangerous." Sherlock scanned the room again, peering out from the side of the couch. A bullet zoomed past his head. "What a lousy shot..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh, screw it all," John said. He stood, aiming his gun at the door as he went. In the space of less than a second, the doctor took aim, fired, and ducked again. He wasn't sure, but he thought he had hit the man in the leg.

Everything was quiet and Sherlock managed to get to his feet despite the pain in his side. "Now to see who our shooter is..." He said walking towards the door.

John followed him quickly, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm. When he saw the still form of the man he had killed, the doctor swore. "Oops."

"Now, I suggest you get your phone and call Greg." Sherlock turned to face John. "As I said. This isn't Moran."

"Right," John said. He took one last look at the man he had killed, and started to head to his bedroom. However, a thought made him pause and turn back to the detective. "Do you promise me that you won't try to leave the flat while I'm finding my phone?"

Sherlock nodded. "I promise I won't leave..." Sherlock said, thinking of ways he could leave without John hearing him.

John folded his arms. "Don't even think about it, you git."

"Just go get your phone, John. I promise I'll be here when you come back." Sherlock said kneeling beside the body.

John folded his arms. "Sorry, Sherlock, but you've lost your credibility over the last six months. Someone's probably phoned the police already, what with all the gun shots."

"John, I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock looked up at him and noticed the blood on his arm. The detective's eyes widened.

"If you're gone when I come back, I'm going to hunt you down and kill you myself," John hissed menacingly. He turned, his hand still holding his arm, and ran as quickly as he could to his room. Sherlock reached over and took the man's pulse. Deceased. He stood up, grabbing his side. The flat was a mess, the couch over turned, bullet holes everywhere. Sherlock moved his hands away from his wound. It felt wet and sticky. He looked at his hand which was covered in fresh blood.

"...and an ambulance. Yeah, just a scratch. Uh... there's someone else here, too... I can't tell you right now. Yup. I don't think so. Thanks, Greg." John shoved his phone in his pocket and sighed. His arm really hurt. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock must be feeling- Sherlock! The doctor saw his friend's hand, dyed red from his own blood. "Sherlock!" John said in his army-doctor voice. "Sit down right now!" John pushed past the detective and set the sofa right-side up. He then took his friend's arm and guided him to a sitting position.

Sherlock stared at his hand. "Pulled my stitches," he mumbled as John pulled him to the sofa.

"I got that, thanks," John said. "The ambulance will be here soon. Hang on," The doctor looked for his beg, and found it strewn across the floor. The bandages were covered in soup. "Shite," John said. Not knowing what else to do, John ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt. He then went back to Sherlock and lifted the man's shirt up. The doctor swore again under his breath, and tied the strip of fabric around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock winced as John tied the strip tightly around his wound. He shut his eyes tightly hoping no tears would escape. "Take care of yourself; your arm is still bleeding," he mumbled.

"The paramedics can patch it up when they come." John muttered. "Right now I'm worried about keeping you alive until they do."

Tears stung his eyes, and a few slipped down his cheeks. "I'm fine..." He said softly. "Stop worrying about me and worry about your own damn self." He hissed.

"Shite," John said as his own eyes widened. He knelt in front of Sherlock, abandoning worry and moving on to panic. "Sherlock? Sherlock, talk to me. What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm bleeding and in immense pain, John. Other than that... I'm fine..." He mumbled.

"I'm sorry," John said, feeling like crying himself. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing it gently. He could hear sirens in the distance. Sherlock went silent. He kept his eyes shut to keep anymore tears from escaping.

"It's okay," John said. He knew that Sherlock hated obvious facts, but right now that was all he could think of. "It's okay. The ambulance will be here soon." Even as he said this, there was loud knocking at the front door. John looked at Sherlock, unsure if he should leave to answer it, or just call down to them. The detective held his side and nodded slightly, silently giving John permission to leave him and get the door. The doctor reluctantly let go of his friend's hand, standing stiffly and jogging down the stairs and to the door. He took a breath, wondering what he was going to say. John opened the door, revealing two paramedics and Lestrade.

"Hi," John said, feeling pretty lame. "Um, before you go in there, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Why?" Lestrade asked, frowning and trying to peer into the flat. "What happened?"

"You're going to think I've lost it, but Sherlock's alive."

The DI stared at John for a full ten seconds before his brain came to the conclusion that the doctor must indeed be crazy. "Uh," he said uncomfortably. "Are you sure about that, John? You haven't been doing drugs or something, have you?"

"Oh, just come on," John said, turning round and leading Lestrade and the paramedics up into the flat. Sherlock was still sitting in the same place, holding his side. His head was getting heavy, and his mind was starting to get cloudy.

"Christ, it's him!" Lestrade said in complete shock. "The bastard really is still alive!"

"Excuse me, sir," one of the paramedics said as he and his partner roughly pushed passed the stunned DI. John watched worriedly as the medics went to work on his friend.

Sherlock hated this, everyone was in danger staying here. Moran was most likely still across the street. He opened his eyes quickly to glance at Lestrade, knowing he'd be in shock. The DI stood staring at the detective, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. He couldn't find the words. "You self-righteous, thick-headed slippery ass-hole and bastard!" Never mind, apparently he could.

"Hello to you, too, Lestrade." Sherlock mumbled under his breath. One of the paramedics touched his side and he closed his eyes and held back a gasp.

"We need to take him to a hospital," one of the paramedics said. "He has significant damage done to his side."

John bit his lip, knowing that Sherlock would not want to agree to this option. The doctor considered asking if they could sedate him. He made up his mind when the detective shook his head. "No, no hospitals… No…" He tried to open his eyes to look at John, but he couldn't.

"We're in trouble," John said to Lestrade. "Someone's trying to kill us. We think he's in the building across from us, but we don't know. If we go to a hospital, he'll kill us. Are there police outside?"

"No hospitals. I'm not going anywhere..." Sherlock said, feeling weaker. His eyes were now getting very heavy. "I shouldn't have even come to begin with..."

"Okay, I have no idea what's going on here," Lestrade said, running his hand over his face. He turned to the paramedics. "Can we treat him here?"

The paramedics exchanged looks, uncertain. "I suppose so..." one said hesitantly. "But we don't have the right equipment."

"Then get it and come back here!" Lestrade said impatiently.

"What about the police?" John asked. "Can they help us?" He looked at Sherlock as he said this, asking his friend more than the DI.

Sherlock shook his head weakly. "I don't want anyone else in danger... send them away... now..."

The paramedics looked at the injured man in confusion, while John sighed. "What needs to be done?" he asked.

"He needs to get proper stitches, and there may be some internal aggravation. We need to do some X-rays," one of the paramedics said. John closed his eyes and sighed again. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock had lost any and all say in matters of his own health. John was his doctor, and therefore the one who should know what to do. However, everything had turned upside down when the detective came back, and John's mind was not coping at all. No, wait. Things had turned right side up again when he returned from the dead, but John had been living upside down for so long that he didn't know what to do.

Sherlock closed his eyes, "No hospitals.." Sherlock said quietly, attempting to grab his side. "Send them all away..." His mind was getting cloudy, all he wanted to do was sleep.

John turned to the paramedics. "I'm sure that he doesn't have internal damage, and I can re-do his stitches more carefully. I think that bringing him to a hospital would do more damage than good right now. Lestrade, can you sort out everything?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "You just start doing your doctor thing. He's still bleeding."

"Right," John said, and completely ignored everyone but Sherlock from then on. He opened the paramedics' bag and pulled out a sedative. Then, without hesitation, he gently slid the needle into Sherlock's arm and pushed the syringe. Sherlock watched John until his eyes slowly closed. He slipped into a deep sleep, his body going limp.

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Well, there you have it. I'm going to be updating a lot over the Winder Break, so look forwards to some more Sherlock stories!


	6. Brother dearest

I'm going to be writing another Sherlock fanfiction over the Winter Break, which will involve pre-Reichenbach drama! I'll also be starting a series on Fictionpress, more info will be given with the next chapter! Finally, if any of you know a good way for a first-time author to publish a book, please let me know! Thank you all for your reviews!

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Four hours later:

John sat in his chair, in the now familiar position of watching over his unconscious friend. He and the paramedics had stitched Sherlock up, and made sure that he wouldn't be in any pain. Meanwhile, Lestrade had taken his people into the building opposite. As they had expected, Moran was gone. The DI had asked John if he wanted police protection, but the doctor had refused that any men in uniform be placed in or around the flat. He had begged Lestrade to keep Sherlock's presence a secret, and the DI had finally agreed. However, John had decided to phone Mycroft. He told Sherlock's brother that the detective was hurt, and that they had been attacked. Now, there were security cameras placed inside and outside of the flat, and the "British Government" himself would be showing up soon for a visit. The doctor tugged at the bandage around his arm repeatedly, finding it hard to settle down. He was probably just way too tense. Or hungry. When was the last time he had eaten?

Sherlock's eyes twitched under his eyelids, like he was dreaming. He could see John getting shot, collapsing, and then dying, over and over again. There was nothing he could do to stop his friend's death. Every time he saw John die, it upset him even more than the first time. John watched in concern as Sherlock's movements became more and more desperate. He knew exactly what horrors a nightmare could hold. Just as the detective had done for him earlier, John grasped Sherlock's shoulders and shook gently, calling his friend's name.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, his eyes shooting open. It took him a moment to remember where he was. "John..." He breathed.

"It's okay," John said soothingly. "You're okay. It was just a dream."

"You... you drugged me again..." He said quietly, his mouth was dry. "H-How long was I out...?"

"Four hours," John said, lowing himself back onto his chair and wincing at the pain in his bandaged arm. "The paramedics gave you the relatively all-clear, but you have to rest. I'm allowed to drug you every time you don't listen to me as a doctor."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. "And what about yourself?" He paused, changing the question forming in his mind. "What did they say about your arm?"

"It's just a graze." John said. "It's fine." He looked out the window, where it was starting to get dark. "I'm sorry," he added quietly, his eyes still gazing into the distance.

"Sorry... for what?" Sherlock said, trying to sit up.

"Oh, no you don't!" John reached forwards and shoved the detective back down, wiping his emotions from his face as he did so. "You're staying on that sofa come hell or high water."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine..." He mumbled. "But you didn't tell me why you're sorry..."

"Just forget it," John said. He took a breath, paused, and shook his head. "Forget it." He decided to change the subject; Sherlock's eyes were locked onto his face. "Have I told you that I missed you?"

"You did..." He mumbled. "John, tell me why you're sorry." Did that sound incredibly needy? He hoped not. It was meant to be reassuring.

Meanwhile, the doctor didn't know what to say. Should he really tell Sherlock what he was thinking? Might as well. Still, though, John didn't want to pour his entire heart and soul out to the detective. I'm sorry that you had to die. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you. "I'm sorry for everything," was what he eventually said. "That you had to go through all of that."

"...it's life John... We have to do what needs to be done..." Sherlock said quietly, closing his eyes.

"But it shouldn't have been you," John whispered, staring at the ground. He needed to get this out. "I wish it had been me. And I'm not trying to sound needy or whatever, because I know that you did a much better job of taking out Moriarty's men than I ever could have, but still, I wish that I had died instead of you."

"John, just stop," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm not dead, I'm here now." He paused. "I had to do it, and you know that. There was no other way."

"I know that," the doctor said quietly. "But if I could have, or if it would had helped at all, I would have died for you." John lifted his gaze from the floor to look at his friend. "That's why I don't want you to spare me, Sherlock. Don't go throwing yourself into more danger unless I have your back. We'll both be safer that way. And don't you dare say that you want to keep me safe, because leaving me out will only make me do something stupid."

"John, you honestly don't understand. I don't want you to die for me. I don't want you to protect me." Sherlock said. "All I want to do is keep you alive," he mumbled.

"We always seem to get back to this point," John sighed. "And you never listen to what I have to say. I'm staying with you. Simple as that."

Sherlock sighed, "I don't feel like arguing with you right now, John..." He said, closing his eyes.

John paused, and then smiled wanly. "Good, because I think your brother's here."

Sherlock groaned. "You called him...?" He mumbled covering his with his hands.

"I had to," the doctor said, pushing himself up from his chair. "It was either that or take you to a hospital under police protection."

Sherlock groaned again. "But... but..." He sighed. "Fine..."

The door to the flat opened just as John reached it, and in walked Mycroft Holmes. The man glanced over John, and then looked at Sherlock with a more disapproving gaze. "You haven't been treating yourself well, Sherlock," he said. "And now Moran is loose on the streets. We must find him quickly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too, Mycroft." He said quietly.

"Honestly, Sherlock, there is hardly much time for pleasantries," the older Holmes scoffed. "What is your plan?"

"I had a plan, but John said it wouldn't work and look where it's gotten us." He said, opening his eyes to look at his brother.

"At least we're not dead," John muttered under his breath.

"Not yet, at least..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Anyway," Mycroft said, giving both men a rather stern glare "What do we know about Moran, other than his abilities with a sniper rifle and previous service to Jim Moriarty?"

"He's been stationed across the street the past few weeks. I suspect he knew I'd return." Sherlock said, trying to sit up.

"What are we going to do about him?" John asked, walking over and pushing the detective firmly back onto the sofa. "I don't think that any publicity would be a good idea."

Sherlock groaned. "I already said I had a plan but you told me it wouldn't work." He mumbled.

Mycroft looked at John. "You said his plan wouldn't work? This whole thing could have been avoided if you had gone with it."

"I think the fact that both he and I would have been dead because of it might have something to do with it," John said evenly. "Not to mention that Moran would still be alive. The plan wouldn't have worked at all."

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing everyone would leave. "I would have made it work..." He mumbled.

"Anyway," John said. "What's a plan we can use now?"

"I believe the only way to catch Moran is to lead him to either of you. His job is to make sure both of you are dead, so what better way?" Mycroft explained.

"Good," John said. "And seeing as Sherlock can't move, logically I'll be the one to take him down." He glanced at the detective and muttered quietly "Cue the argument."

"You bloody idiot." Sherlock muttered under his breath. "You are not taking him down alone." He opened his eyes and glared at John. "How many times do I have to tell you that?!"

"Apparently quite a few," the doctor sighed. "More than I'll tell you that I'm staying with you." He looked at Mycroft. "We've been arguing such points for a few hours, now."

Mycroft nodded, seeming a bit amused. "And you still haven't listened to him?"

"Which one of us are you referring to?" John asked wryly.

"Both of you, you should listen to each other." Mycroft replied.

"Yeah, that'll work," John sighed. "Can we please just come up with a plan to stop Moran?"

Sherlock shrugged, feeling a bit tired. "Outsmart him in some way... A trap of sorts," he mumbled.

"Good heavens, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "When did you lose your sense of specifics? I hardly think that 'a trap of sorts' will help us!"

Sherlock shrugged again. "He wants John and myself dead, so all we need is to get him to follow us some place. Some place open I'd imagine. Maybe the park? Once we're there he'd most likely take a shot or two, this time he'd know better than to send someone to do his dirty..." He trailed off.

"Sherlock?" John asked, alarmed. "What is it?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "I'm tired," he mumbled.

John frowned, not really in the trusting mood at the moment. "Okay, yeah, you should sleep. Mycroft, can you come back in five hours or so?"

Mycroft glanced from his brother to the doctor, and nodded. "In the mean time I will see if I can provide any more information on Moran." He tilted his head slightly towards the exit, silently telling John to come with him. When they were just outside the flat, Mycroft looked at John sternly. "You're not going to leave him alone, are you?"

John snorted. "I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm not stupid. I'll text you if anything happens."

Mycroft smirked and went outside. The doctor watched as he slid into a car and was soon out of sight. Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard John walking back up the stairs. "Is he gone?"

"Yeah, don't worry." John smiled, sitting heavily on his chair. "I think he suspected, though."

"No idea what you're talking about," Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again. "Don't call him again, please," he mumbled.

"Don't worry, I won't." John looked at Sherlock in concern. "Are you okay, though? Do you want some painkillers or something?" He checked his watch. "It's almost eight in the morning. You should get some more sleep. Or have breakfast. Or both."

"I'm fine, just a bit tired." he yawned, trying to stay awake.

"Sleep it is," John frowned. "Do you want to take my bed? It'll be a lot better for you than the sofa."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm fine here," he said, quietly. "Stop worrying about me."

"Hard to do after six months," John said a little bitterly. "Seriously, though, do you want some sleep medicine or painkillers?"

The detective sighed. "Some painkillers would be nice," he replied quietly.

"Okay," John went to the bathroom and grabbed some pills. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, thinking. Since Sherlock had come back over twenty-four hours ago, John hadn't really had a time to stop and think. Now that Mycroft was gone and they had no immediate plan for Moran, the doctor could finally think about what had happened. The only thing was, he had no idea how he felt about anything. He was glad that Sherlock was back, no doubt there, and he was still slightly angry at the detective for staying away for so long. The past six months had obviously been hard on Sherlock, but they had changed John more than he himself understood. He needed to know that Sherlock was really back, and that things would go back to how they were before Moriarty. John almost laughed. He needed to know that Sherlock was still Sherlock, still his partner, still his friend.

John exited the bathroom quickly and handed the pills to Sherlock. However, he didn't speak or move away, instead just taking in the sight of the detective. Sherlock took the pills and closed his eyes, "Thank you," he said. It was strange being back at Baker Street. He never intended to stay, but with John watching him twenty-four/seven he couldn't slip away, not that he could if he wanted to. He opened his eyes again when he noticed that John hadn't moved. "What is it?" he asked, a little concerned.

"Nothing," John said quietly. "I'm just glad you're back." He went and sat once more in his chair, preparing himself for yet another very long day.


	7. The final plan

"Nothing," John said quietly. "I'm just glad you're back." He went and sat once more in his chair, preparing himself for yet another very long day.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes.

"Not much," John said. "You should get some sleep."

"After you tell me what's on your mind," Sherlock replied.

"I'm worried about you," John said finally. "I know you've had a bad time, not just physically, but emotionally. I can't imagine what you've been though, and I want you to know that you can talk to me. Obviously I won't understand anything, but I know you think better with a sounding board."

Sherlock sighed. "John, I'm not going to talk about what I've been through. It doesn't matter anymore," he mumbled.

"Yes," John's head snapped up to look at Sherlock, his voice firm. "It bloody well does matter. I've fought in a war. Don't tell me that it doesn't matter. And talking about it really does help. Take it from one who's been psycho-babbled."

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at John, surprised at the way he was speaking. "John," he said quietly. "It may have helped you, but it won't for me."

"It will help, I promise." John sighed. "I know you don't want to talk about it now, but when you do, just know that I'll be there for you."

Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes again. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome, Sherlock," John said quietly as he watched the detective drift off.

After a few minutes John roused himself. It was still early morning, and he knew that he should do something with himself. He considered sleep, but there had to be someone awake in the flat, and he knew that Sherlock needed the rest. Food, then? John frowned as he tried to remember the last time he had eaten. About a day before Sherlock came back, he had managed to stomach some Chinese takeout. He hadn't been eating more than once a day at the most in the last six months. Even though Sherlock was thin to the point of emaciation, John knew that he had lost almost as much weight. With this in mind, he made himself some soup and forced himself to eat. Once he was done, the doctor walked over to Sherlock's room. Case files were in boxes along the wall, personal effects were scattered across the room, and a large chemistry set rested on the bed. John hadn't been able to bring himself to give away any of the detective's things.

John started by carefully moving the chemistry set, piece by piece, back onto the kitchen table. He put the file cases back onto the shelf in the living room, and found temporary places for all of the other bits and bobs scattered around. As he was working, John checked up on Sherlock every five minutes or so. It was strange, doing housework while a highly-trained sniper was out to kill you, and a man who had been dead for six months lay on the couch. By ten in the morning, John had tidied the flat so that it was cleaner than he had ever seen it. Work done, John settled back in his chair and just gazed tiredly at Sherlock. The detective looked so peaceful as he slept.

Sherlock didn't have his usual nightmare. He had a new one, where the scenery had changed. The dream was now set at Baker Street. In it, he and John were in the sitting room, discussing a way to deal with Moran when the window shattered, and John slumped over in his chair. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and ran to John. He lifted his head up to reveal blood gushing from a wound on his forehead. "Sherlock," the doctor gasped. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock opened his eyes, surveying his surroundings. He took a deep breath, trying to convince his slightly panicking mind that it was just a dream.

"You alright?" John asked worriedly, seeing his friend react to a nightmare.

Sherlock glanced at John. "I'm fine," he replied quietly.

"So you always say," John said with a half-smile. He wondered if Sherlock would ever tell him when something was wrong. Probably only after he did the same, and then some. "What do you want to eat? And nothing isn't an option."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and looked around the room again. "I honestly don't want anything," he mumbled, knowing John would protest.

"Too bad. Name something, or I'll get Mrs. Hudson to make you a feast, and you know she'll force you to eat all of it."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't care. Whatever is fine with me."

"Soup it is, then," John went over to the kitchen and started making some. "I think we should decide what to do about Moriarty. It's ridiculous that we're going about doing normal things while a killer's on the loose trying to, well, kill us. We need to come up with a plan to stop him."

"Open to any ideas..." Sherlock mumbled. He gripped his side and sat up, hoping John didn't see him. He was sick of laying in the same spot.

"Don't even think about moving around," John called over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. "I'm trying to get you at least partially healed before we get into trouble." Sherlock shook his head, ignoring what John said. "As long as you don't leave the flat," John sighed. "But we still need to work out what to do about Moran."

"Any idea you'd care to share, John? I've given my idea for a plan," the detective mumbled, forcing himself to stand up.

Do we know where he is now?" John asked, bringing the soup over to Sherlock.

"He's probably returned to his headquarters, which is located in a warehouse near the harbor," he replied.

"Should we just send the police over there and get it over with?" the doctor asked, putting the soup on the table after Sherlock didn't take it. "I don't want to draw this out any longer."

"No, not yet. You'd be leading them to their deaths, John." Sherlock stretched slightly, seeing how much pain each movement caused.

"We have to do something," John sighed, sitting back on his chair. "We can't just wait for him to make the first move. He'd probably just start firing at the flat until we're both dead."

The detective thought for a moment. "The game ends today," he said quietly. "You and I will enter the warehouse. Alone," he explained. "Lestrade and his men will be on standby."

John frowned. "Sherlock," he said, waiting until the other man looked at him to continue. "What are the chances that we're going to die in that warehouse?"

"If he doesn't know we're coming, fairly high," he mumbled. "If he does… have any better ideas?"

"Not really," John sighed. "Should we tell your brother?"

Sherlock sighed, "There isn't much he can do."

"Right. So when do we go?" John asked, pushing himself to his feet and standing ready. "And should I bring my gun?"

* * *

There are probably going to be two more chapters, one with the final battle, and one wrapping up. I'm sorry for such a short chapter here, but this was really the only place for a break. Thank you all for putting up with me for this long! You're amazing! If you like my writing style, check out my story "Time Dance" on under the name Kaiah Aurora. It's sort of a mix between Doctor Who and Firefly, and will include a lot of adventures and drama. If you want more Sherlock or Johnlock goodness, check out my story "Drabbles from Omegle to 221B" I love you all and happy reading!


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